


wood and nails

by foolshope



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Bargaining, Canonical Character Death, Denial, Five Stages of Grief, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, Panic Attacks, Religious Contemplation, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Soul-Searching, dramatic outbursts but it's only like two lines of dialogue, funneling anger and injustice @ god, idk guys, lapslock, needs to be an official tag tbh, no stage acceptance tho we don't do that here, the whole shebang but it's in a church for no reason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21715240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolshope/pseuds/foolshope
Summary: he’s not sure why he’s here, of all places.he’s never really considered himself to be that religious, not that he didn’t have his fair share of monday mornings sat on creaking pew benches half-listening to half-truths spewed from overcompensating mouths growing up, but a lot of things ended when his parents’ marriage did and going to church once a week was one of them.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	wood and nails

**Author's Note:**

> if you read this piece of garbage no you didn't <3
> 
> spoilers for 4x01, but not much else of season 4, takes place after the funeral at some point
> 
> rated t just for swearing cause sometimes there's just no other way to express urself u know
> 
> lyrics from jesus christ - brand new (credits to ShyAudacity for the song rec ages ago wowie)

* * *

_well, jesus christ, i'm alone again_  
_so what did you do those three days you were dead?_  
_cause this problem's gonna last more than the weekend_

* * *

he’s not sure why he’s here, of all places. 

he’s never really considered himself to be that religious, not that he didn’t have his fair share of monday mornings sat on creaking pew benches half-listening to half-truths spewed from overcompensating mouths growing up, but a lot of things ended when his parents’ marriage did and going to church once a week was one of them. even before loose-lipped dinners punctuated by laughter and light became something lesser, dimmer, sluggish silence punctuated by the grating scrape of silverware on ceramic, it often seemed more habitual than anything. a passive participation his dad was far too accustomed to growing up himself to break, his mom too neutral to counter, and archie too young to care.

he still didn’t care. not really. he’s still not sure why he’d come here, of all places.

( maybe _that’s_ why his life turned out the way it did. )

he’s no expert by any means, not well-versed in the books themselves ( or _any_ books for that matter ), old testament from new, commandments from beatitudes, but he thought he still knew the basics, at least. god the father, the son, the holy spirit. the birth, the death, the resurrection. judge not lest you be judged, love thy neighbor as yourself. 

he thought god was supposed to be merciful or something, though. 

and yet, he’s also called the judge, righteous in wrath, just in punishment. the same guy who so loved the world he sent his son down to be brutally killed for its salvation also supposedly created a pit of fire where bad things go to suffer for all of eternity just for lifetimes of sin.

supposedly, even just one sin not repented is enough to justify an eternity of pain.

where is the line drawn, then, between judge and savior?

hell if he knew.

the afterlife is one thing, but does god dish out punishment during life too? is that a thing? karma, or whatever? it’d seem pointless if he did, seeing as anyone deserving of punishment was just going to get it literally forever the moment they dropped dead. seems pointless -- overkill, even, but who’s archie to say?

( and yet, everything about this feels ordained, _cosmic_ in nature, the very universe willing to tip in any direction but his, time and time again, too many times to be mere coincidence, too many times to be anything but _orchestrated_ \--

\-- _did he do something_ wrong? _what the fuck did he do wrong? --_ )

the face staring down at him looks more worn than he remembers it being.

and he remembers it, doesn’t he? this church specifically, more than the others they’d hop-scotched around from due to varying taste and one simply closing -- this was the one they happened to be going to right before the divorce. different from the more protestant feel he’d been used to, but at the time just another church. just another alter, more pews, same book. 

he remembers thinking it looked prettier than the other churches they went to. more elegant, clean.

cold.

he shivers. 

( he definitely doesn’t _shudder,_ doesn’t convulse for the span of a single second, doesn’t feel the world shrivel and shrink around the edges for the briefest of moments before forcing it flat again with something far too close for comfort to desperation -- )

the face staring down at him looks far more blank than you’d expect of someone with a band of thorns shoved in their scalp. 

( and yet, he understands, even if he tries to avoid his own reflection far more than he probably should. )

( and yet, every time he manages to accidentally catch a glimpse of it, his face looks far more blank than you’d expect of someone who just lost their -- )

( what did he do _wrong? )_

archie’s not one for pity parties. as much as he’s engaged in them throughout the years ( as one does ), they never fail to make his skin crawl, his stomach flip, his lip curl in disgust, or at least something like it. he tries to ignore them as one does with flies, with mosquito bites, with verses about cutting your hair or owning a slave, with bands of thorns shoved in their scalp. 

he tries to, he _tries, he’s trying_ \--

( -- he ignores them like he ignores the little voice in the back of his head asking _where is the line drawn, then, between pity parties and catharsis?_ _)_

he hears someone come in, the creak of the double doors, the following footsteps, but they don’t get closer and they don’t approach _him_ so he ignores them in favor of that scalp, that band, those thorns. the face. 

blank. void. empty.

_( he feels empty. )_

he stares at his hands, his fingers. curled around the back of the pew in front of him like it could crumble beneath the pressure and is surprised when something hot and simmering flares in response when it doesn’t. the grain is smooth against his callous, sanded to perfection or perhaps just fake, painted near black with stain. he forces his fingers flat again and trails them over its edges, its curves, carefully, and tries to ignore the faint tremor to them, _tries,_ he _tries_ \--

a deep breath rattles his lungs, sudden, spine straightening to make room in his hunch to expand, contract, hitch somewhere between, and he has to remind himself not for the first time in the last several months how to breathe. 

( it’s hard to remember the how when you don’t know the _why_. )

_what did he do?_

( what did he do to _deserve_ this, anything and everything between now and the last several months, hell, the last _year,_ what did he _do,_ what did his _dad_ do to deserve this, what did his dad fucking _do_ to deserve a son who -- )

_“what do you want from me?”_

( hasn’t he already given? hasn’t he given _enough?_ hasn’t he given his blood, his sweat, his tears, hasn’t his _dad_ \-- )

it’s just a whisper, cast to the floor between his feet. barely audible despite the silence permeated throughout the room, thick, heavy, suffocating, _deafening_ \--

“what the fuck am i supposed to _do?_ ”

and it’s deafening in the face of the silence permeated throughout the room, punctuated by his palm slamming down against the back of the pew in front of him like it could crumble beneath the pressure, shatter at a single touch like the quiet that’s lifted, vanished into thin air, a phantom to the night, gone, _he's gone_ \--

he tries to, he _tries, he’s trying_ \-- and yet, no single breath will fill out completely, merely hitch somewhere between each inhale until he’s curling forward, hunching closer til the space between his brows meets grain sanded to perfection or perhaps just fake, more elegant, clean, _cold,_ until something warm blooms itself light against his shoulder.

he tries not to ignore the little voice at the side of his head when it says _hey, sh, sh, just try to breathe, okay, one breath at a time, just breathe_ \--

but it’s hard to, when his lungs feel like sponges, water-logged and soggy, overused, when his body doesn’t feel like his own, too still and too trembling all at once, frozen stiff and cold, a statue in an earthquake, when his skull feels like it’s shivering and shrinking at the edges, splitting like eggshells cracked too hard against the rim of a bowl, scalp force-fed _euphorbia milii_ until he thinks he might be sick all over the carpet.

but the warmth shifts, presses, curls around the shape of him as a twin sensation plants down over his knuckles blanched white against near black. the voice isn’t little anymore and he doesn’t ignore it when it rings closer, clear, crystal, _“archie, i need you to look at me,”_ and that warmth clasps tighter until his fingers go lax. 

it’s somehow easier to breathe staring into fire. 

a dark brown, near black, cold and hot at the same time. mesmerizing. smooth orange framing pale skin paler against signature red lips that twitch ever so slightly up at the corners as his lungs and his stomach try to flip themselves upright.

“...there you go... that’s better.”

but it's not, it’s not _better,_ _it's not okay,_ it never _will be_ again if it ever even was, between music teachers and serial killers and mob bosses and juvie wardens and juvie gaurds and fucking _bears, has it ever really been fucking okay?_ what did he _do_ \-- was it just fraternizing with geraldine grundy that kicked all of this off in the first place, the first domino to set loose an avalanche of reactions, corrupted him and _every fucking thing_ around him? or did it span further back than that, through the years, one after the other, one little thing overlooked, understated, brushed aside and forgotten? or was it the simple act of being fucking born at all?

what is he supposed to _do_ to undo this, for this to _stop?_ what more does he have to lose, to give? what more could his _dad_ have fucking given? _what more?_

and what could archie ever give that could compare to that?

anything -- he’d give _anything._ anything to just make it _stop._ just make it fucking stop, _please._

archie stares into fire, and feels himself burn.

he wants to say something, to cheryl, to toni hovered close by, to the face watching all three of them from its place of bloodless agony, for caring enough to appear out of nowhere, to happen to be here on the same night in the same church and bother to offer any kind of solace to _him_ of all people, a divine intervention, fucking _orchestral ordination,_ but his tongue nails itself to the roof of his mouth and the hot band around his skull clamps tight on any thought that could possibly turn to spoken word. yet what he wants more is for _him_ to say something, for that _face_ to unravel and spill its secrets as willingly as it spilled its blood to open ears even _once, just once,_ anything at all, to break free from its mask of indifference, blank, void, empty, to do _something, say something._

anything.

but instead he stares, watches, waits. breathes, even though he’s not sure he’s ever known why.

( nothing. )

but he knows somewhere soul-deep that he’ll never fan that flame long enough for an answer.

* * *

_so, do you think that we could work out a sign_  
_so i'll know it's you and that it's over so i won't even try?_

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> look away
> 
> kudos & comments are always appreciated and i honestly, truly love all of you who actually read this complete word vomit i toss out at random onto this hellsite. thank you. <3


End file.
